


The Coastal Shelf

by kathryne



Series: The Past Forty Years [2]
Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Babies, Gen, Motherhood, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: "The Bergsteins stopped by," Robert says, waving a finger in front of Brianna's face.  She wrinkles her nose at the movement.  "Frankie brought you something.  I wasn't sure if you'd want to see anyone – "" – but I said, of course I won't stay long, I just have to welcome your precious little girl to the world."  Frankie swoops in behind him in a riot of colour that seems to fill the room.*Grace, and Frankie, and competing ideas and ideals of motherhood, and angst.  Did I mention the angst.





	The Coastal Shelf

**Author's Note:**

> Although all the stories in this series should stand alone, this one is definitely a companion piece to [The Undertow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11766228); reading that first will add depth.
> 
> This came from a tumblr prompt by @serenaelisabet, _tongue-tied_. I am on tumblr at @sapphoshands, where I have many feelings about how this show is ruining my life. Join me!

Grace's whole body hurts. Her breasts ache. There's a cramp in her shoulders and an itch flaming on the top of one calf. She's sore in places she doesn't even want to think about, and that's not the worst of it. Days of enforced immobility have left her muscles trembling with the desire to walk, run, _move_. But she doesn't. She daren't. Because Brianna is lying on a pillow in her lap, and, for what seems like the first time since Robert brought them home from the hospital, she isn't crying. Grace takes slow, shallow breaths, holds as still as she can, and is so, so afraid of waking her.

Even in sleep, Brianna's face is red and pinched. Her tiny foot kicks; her clenched fist waves; her lips purse and frown. She looks angry. Needy. Disappointed. They both know Grace is already failing her. They've been trying for hours to nurse. Nothing's working, and it's exhausted both of them.

A tear runs down Grace's cheek and plops onto her lap, then another. She still doesn't move, not even to wipe them away. Everything was so much easier in the hospital: interchangeable cheerful women appearing with Brianna at scheduled intervals, positioning Grace's arms, showing her how to support Brianna's neck and guide her to a nipple, praising the hunger with which she latched on to Grace's flesh. The curve of Brianna's head, soft against Grace's arm, exactly echoing the new, alien swell of her breast. Like it was meant to be. Like there was a reason for all these changes she finds so hard to fathom.

Now that they're alone, Grace is clumsy and unsure. Brianna sucks briefly and turns her face away or spits up and refuses to try again. And she screams; God, she screams, the sound piercing through Grace's ears until she wants to scream herself just to drown it out. She ought to have known better. She ought to have listened to her body the first time, when it showed her exactly how unfit she was to be a mother.

Grace moves just one finger, strokes Brianna's little round chin. Brianna squirms away. Poor thing, Grace thinks.

"Grace?" Robert taps on the half-open door and pokes his head inside. At that, Brianna wakes fully, whining in frustration. Grace looks up at Robert, too tired to summon any anger. He steps close to the bed, hovering like he's not sure he's allowed any nearer. "The Bergsteins stopped by," he says, waving a finger in front of Brianna's face. She wrinkles her nose at the movement. "Frankie brought you something. I wasn't sure if you'd want to see anyone – "

" – but I said, of course I won't stay long, I just _have_ to welcome your precious little girl to the world." Frankie swoops in behind him in a riot of colour that seems to fill the room, flowing orange caftan competing with the bright green fabric wrap that holds her own baby strapped tightly to her chest. The sight stirs only the faintest of Grace's usual scorn; she shrugs, jiggling Brianna in the hopes of keeping her noise to a minimum, unable to care about anything else. 

"Great. Sol and I will be downstairs." Robert makes his escape after waving fatuously at Brianna again, leaving Grace and Frankie alone with their children. God. Grace can see it now, the years ahead of them as they're forced together again and again, removed from the important conversations and shunted into groups of mommies whose biggest concerns are playgroups and potty training and all those things Frankie's already been wittering on about.

Frankie comes closer as soon as he leaves. "What a darling," she exclaims, plopping down on the bed. Brianna yowls at that, making Grace tense, but something distracts her – the brightness of Frankie's clothes, the presence of another baby – and she settles slightly, kicking out as Frankie tickles her foot. Frankie coos, Brianna gurgles, and Grace slumps backwards into her pillows, relaxing just a bit. "She's a real little cutie-pie," Frankie says at last, and Grace laughs harshly.

"You're only saying that because she's quiet. You wait, she'll turn into a screaming demon again soon enough." She lets her eyes close, unwilling to see the look on Frankie's face at this admission of imperfection. Frankie snorts with laughter, though, and Grace's eyes fly back open in surprise.

"Welcome to motherhood, Grace," Frankie says. And that hurts nearly as much as the impossibility of meeting Brianna's needs: the dismissal, the equation of Frankie's six months with an adopted child to the pregnancy and birth that Grace knows will leave their mark on her body forever, the absurd suggestion that Frankie knows more than she does about her own daughter. "Oh, here," Frankie continues, oblivious. She reaches into the enormous carpet bag she carries with her everywhere and pulls a blindingly bright blue trail of cloth from it. "A wrap carrier," she says, gesturing at her own. "Matches your baby blues. This way you can take your precious package with you everywhere. Watch those pointy elbows of yours, though. Don't want to put her eye out." Another blow, but no less than Grace deserves. 

As if to underscore the fact, Brianna chooses that moment to start whimpering, building up to what Grace can already tell is going to be a grade-A tantrum. She rocks the pillow, desperately making soothing noises, but she knows Brianna must be hungry, and that's a fight she refuses to let Frankie see.

"Aw, here." Frankie pipes up before Grace can ask her to leave. She undoes her green wrap, freeing Coyote from confinement, and plops him in Grace's arms, picking Brianna up in the same practiced movement. "Trade ya," she says, and stands to bob Brianna around the room. It doesn't work, she keeps howling, but for a moment Grace can step back from her attempts to triage, can instead stare down into Coyote's confused face. He yawns at her. Of course, Grace thinks, he must be used to loud noises already. Living with the Bergsteins, he'll either grow up completely neurotic or totally unflappable. Given a name like Coyote – what a thing to saddle a child with! – Grace is pretty sure she knows which.

Coyote's eyes are still the same pale blue as Brianna's, but they focus confidently. He looks up at Grace like he sees her; when she waggles a finger at him, he grabs it, his chubby baby hands stronger than she expected. That's enough to keep him occupied: she tugs, he tugs back, and he doesn't want or need or expect anything more from her. In the background, Brianna wails steadily. Grace splays her other hand over Coyote's plump stomach and closes her eyes again, trying to gather whatever strength she has left.

Coyote's squirming rouses her from the half-doze she's fallen into, but it's the silence in the rest of the room that brings her jolting upright. Coyote yelps as she jogs him, and beside her Frankie says "Hey now, hey," in a voice that's meant to soothe both of them. Grace snaps her head sideways.

Frankie's sitting on the bed next to her, mirroring her pose. She's got Brianna curled in her arms, and Brianna's quiet not because she's screamed herself hoarse or given herself an aneurysm or any of the other horrible possibilities that ran through Grace's mind. She's sucking hungrily on a bottle as Frankie holds her. Grace doesn't know what to say; she just stares.

"Hey, I'm sorry, Grace," Frankie says, and that might just be the first time Frankie has ever apologised to her for anything, which really adds to the surreality of the moment. Brianna wiggles and Frankie repositions her and the bottle without looking away from Grace. In the orange caftan, with her dark hair down, she's all soft curves and coziness, and Brianna looks so comfortable in her embrace, so different from the awkwardness Grace always feels. No wonder – she's nothing but hard edges and sharp points, not made to be maternal. "It's just, you looked like you needed the sleep, and I didn't want our little loudmouth to wake you up, and..." 

Frankie trails off, waiting, and Grace still can only stare, wide-eyed. How is it that Frankie – Frankie, who can't even have her own children – can be so good at this? How can it be so simple for her? Or maybe it's just that in comparison to Grace, anyone would look like a candidate for Mother of the Year.

Brianna sucks the bottle dry and moves her head back with a little murmur, and Frankie looks down, breaking Grace's gaze. She shifts Brianna easily, bringing her up against her shoulder, patting her back while she burbles. Grace's grasp on Coyote tightens as she watches her daughter snuggle into Frankie's hair.

"I just figured you wouldn't mind," Frankie says quietly. "I mean, even Doctor Spock says bottle feeding is totally fine – "

"I know," Grace snaps. Of course she knows. She's spent the past nine months and more poring over childcare manuals, frustrated by the new advice to steer away from schedules and rely instead on her instincts. Instincts! She spent the entire pregnancy fighting to bury her instincts. But she did it, stuck to the recommended diets like a talisman, one she could rely on to keep herself and her child safe. Turns out none of it mattered: her body betrayed them again, and now Frankie wants to tell her everything's _fine_.

Brianna belches; the sound seems to surprise her. She tangles her hand in Frankie's hair and tugs, and Frankie eases her away, settling her back in the crook of her elbow. Brianna smacks her lips a couple of times and then calms, staring wide-eyed and unseeing at the world around her. With her tuft of blonde hair and her face no longer so red, she does look like – "See," Frankie murmurs, "a little angel."

"Of course. For you she behaves," Grace says. She takes a deep breath. She will not cry again.

"I'm sure you'll get there, Grace. I guess it just takes practice. You know, hard work. There's lots to learn, but you'll get better." Frankie sing-songs the words, bouncing Brianna in her arms. She doesn't look at Grace; she doesn't have to. Grace feels the contempt regardless.

"Enough, Frankie," she snaps. Both babies whimper, and Grace modulates her voice. "Thanks so much for dropping by." Frankie doesn't look at all surprised; she looks like she's been waiting for Grace to kick her out. She shifts as though to hand Brianna back to Grace, but Grace pulls away, shaking her head. "Put her – put her in her crib, please," she manages. "She'll fall asleep any minute." That is what babies do after eating, isn't it.

Frankie does as Grace asks without comment – another first. When she leans over to pick up Coyote, though, she can't hold back any longer. "I didn't mean to upset you, Grace," she says. "You know what's best for your girl."

It's becoming increasingly clear that she doesn't; she can't say so, not to Frankie, and so she turns away, pointedly not watching as Frankie wraps Coyote to her again.

"See ya, girls," Frankie says, hefting her bag and pausing to wiggle her fingers at Brianna, who's still, blissfully, quiet. She looks back at Grace once, like she's going to say something else, but Grace sets her mouth and glares until Frankie turns and leaves. Grace waits until she hears Frankie going down the stairs, counting them out loud to Coyote. She pushes the pillows aside and pulls the covers back, then starts the all-too-slow process of getting up, getting her unsteady legs to support her. She leaves Frankie's absurd blue wrap strewn across the bed. Imagine wearing a thing like that.

Brianna, in her crib, has in fact fallen asleep. Grace was right. She ought to feel vindicated. She leans on the side of the crib, letting it take some of her weight, and watches Brianna sleep. There's a little dribble of milk in the corner of her mouth. She won't sleep long. She'll wake up soon. And then the whole thing will start all over again.

Grace hates to admit it, but Frankie's right about bottle feeding. The experts agree now that it's perfectly acceptable for babies to be brought up on formula. There's still an underlying sense that natural is better, is best, but almost no one says it out loud any more. And wouldn't it be _better_ for Brianna if she doesn't have to fight her way through every feeding? It sounds like an excuse, but Grace tells herself that doesn't mean it's not true.

She could send Robert out for formula. Oh, he'll argue, tell her she's exaggerating, probably echo Frankie's platitudes that all it takes is time and patience and practice. But if she insists, he'll do it for Brianna. Given how long he spent convincing Grace to consider having a child, she thinks he'll do anything for his daughter. Of course, so will Grace. She'll do anything she can. She's always been realistic about her strengths and weaknesses, though. And motherhood? Nurturing, caring... loving... none of that has ever come easily to her, not even with Robert. She's not built for it. She straightens, groaning in pain. 

Even though she feels terrible, it's still a shock to look in the bathroom mirror. Her cheeks somehow manage to be both puffy and gaunt, her eyes are dull, and her hair is limp and oily against her face and neck, a long cry from Frankie's fluffy locks.

She glances out the door at Brianna's crib, then turns away from the mirror before she peels off her pyjamas. She can take a quick shower. If Brianna wakes up, Robert will hear her, or it won't hurt her to cry for a bit, no matter what Doctor Spock says. Grace's mother was all for the cry-it-out method, still is, and Grace turned out – well. She turned out, anyway.

The water's almost too hot when Grace steps under it, but she welcomes the sting, runs her hands over her numbed skin as fast as she can and washes her hair twice before her legs start wobbling. She wraps a towel around her hair and one around her body, ignoring the discarded pyjamas in favour of opening her closet doors and eyeing the smart work outfits she had to trade in for maternity wear. Soon, she promises herself. Sooner, if she stops trying to nurse. It's not giving up, not really; it's just being honest. After all, she's good at what she does. Surely it's _better_ not to try and force herself to be something she's not. Forget the stupid baby wrap. Frankie's given her a far greater gift.

She dresses, then dares to look in the mirror again. For the first time in months, she almost recognises the woman she sees there.

**Author's Note:**

> They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  
>  They may not mean to, but they do.  
> They fill you with the faults they had  
>  And add some extra, just for you.
> 
> But they were fucked up in their turn  
>  By fools in old-style hats and coats,  
> Who half the time were soppy-stern  
>  And half at one another's throats.
> 
> Man hands on misery to man.  
>  It deepens like a coastal shelf.  
> Get out as early as you can,  
>  And don't have any kids yourself.
> 
> – Philip Larkin, "This Be the Verse"


End file.
